


Flop, Turn and River

by Cubicquart, TheLastSaskPirate



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Cardverse, Family Dynamics, Fire Magic, Gen, Minor Denmark/Norway (Hetalia), Non-Graphic Violence, Norway-centric, Tournaments, alternate universe - cardverse, injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22858183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cubicquart/pseuds/Cubicquart, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastSaskPirate/pseuds/TheLastSaskPirate
Summary: The King is dead.“I hereby declare thee, Lukas Steilsson, the new King of Spades!” He tugs on Lukas’ shirt, stopping him in his tracks and places the crown on his head. Matthias then kneels with a flourish, head bowed, “My King! May I have the honour of kissing thy royal hand?”
Relationships: Denmark & Iceland (Hetalia), Iceland & Norway (Hetalia), Norway & Denmark (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	1. A Crown of Asters

“Hey Emil! Race ya’ to the other side of the lake?”  


“You’re on, Matthias.”  


The two take off, one pair of footsteps heavy and rapid, the other light and deliberate. Their paths diverge at the shoreline, and Lukas is distinctly aware of a gentle splashing across the lake, like a fish leaping over the surface. He is unconcerned about the result of the race.  


“No fair! You used magic. That’s cheating!”  


“No it’s not. You never said no magic allowed so I won, fair and square.”  


Matthias sputters. “Luk! Why don’t you decide, was walking on water cheating?”  


“Or, why don’t you explain to this idiot that I won fair and square and if he’s not happy about it he should use his brains for once,” Emil interjects, and Lukas can already imagine the way he puffs out his cheeks.  


“Luk! –”  


“Lukas! –“  


Meanwhile, Lukas is appreciating the softness of the grass beneath him and the serene sway of the branches above him. In a few weeks the tree will bear ripe fruit. He speculates about the taste of fruit, crisp and sweet. When was the last time he’d even eaten an apple? Perhaps it had been the winter solstice, huddled around a dim ember in the hearth.  


Matthias ruins the reverie with a gentle jab at his cheek, and another, and another.  


“Come on, Luk! Who won, technically? Em cheated! Did’ja see how fast I swam? I totally won.”  


Lukas swats his hand away and sits up to glare at him, “I believe you specifically said, and I quote, ‘Race ya’ to the other side of the lake,’ which does not imply swimming or even taking a straight path through the lake. The way you worded it, one was even allowed to walk around the lake to the other side. So no, walking on water and the use of magic was not cheating.”  


His friend sputters again, and Emil cackles at him.  


-  


They head home around noon, the pull of hunger stronger than the sweltering midsummer sun. The path home cuts through a wildflower meadow.  


Matthias plucks asters from the edges of the path, gathering enough to weave them together, forming a delicate crown. Lukas leans into Emil’s side as they walk, and for once little brother does not protest it. None of them speak. Lukas knew they had been trying to cheer him up, but despite their efforts he was brooding again. It is as if a cloud had descended on them since they had left the lake, a reminder of recent events in the Capital.  


“So about the King’s tournament…” Emil breaks the silence.  


No one responds.  


“What if we went to watch it? Together, I mean.” there is no reply, Emil continues, “It could be fun! I mean, we’ve never ever left town before. It’ll be like an adventure.”  


Lukas doesn’t stop walking or look at him when he replies, “No, you’re not to go anywhere near the Capital.”  


“Lukas…” Emil starts before a glare from Lukas stops him. _“I’m not a child anymore,” _is left unsaid, Lukas knows, he’s heard it a thousand times. He ignores it. After all, seventeen is still too young. Emil will forever be too young in his eyes.  
__

__“Now, now. Let’s not fight. Why don’t we have a tournament of our own? It’ll be just as fun, and winner can have this crown!” Matthias holds up the grass and flowers he’d been twining, cutting the tension in the air. It is a pretty, overgrown mess, a deep shade of indigo that matched Lukas’ eyes.  
_ _

__“No…it’s alright. Forget about it. Besides, Lukas would win anyways. That’s a given.”  
_ _

__Matthias laughs, “You’re right about that! In that case, I hereby declare thee, Lukas Steilsson, the new King of Spades!” He tugs on Lukas’ shirt, stopping him in his tracks and places the crown on his head. Matthias then kneels with a flourish, head bowed, “My King! May I have the honour of kissing thy royal hand?”  
_ _

__A smile tugs at the corner of Lukas’ mouth, and his heart swells with warmth. He extends his hand slowly, and mimics the haughty tone of the nobility, “You may.”  
_ _

__“What about me? If Lukas is King, does that make me a Ten-of-Spades?”  
_ _

__“I believe so. Oh, noble Emil, Ten-of-Spades, I am honoured to be in your royal presence!”  
_ _

__Emil laughs, and the tension is gone.  
_ _

__-  
_ _

__Matthias leaves as the sun flickers over the tops of the hills that surround their humble cottage. The light from his lantern sways gently as he walks over the crest of the hill, his lumbering stature plied by precious drops of ale. Lukas sets aside their empty bowls, turning his attention away from the open window, and to his brother huddled beside the fireplace. He picks at strings at the hem of his tunic, and they enjoy a moment of quiet.  
_ _

__It doesn’t last long.  
_ _

__“Everything changes now, doesn’t it?” Emil asks somberly.  
_ _

__The Capital, the King’s death, the upcoming tournament, and the succession of the Queen of Spades. Traditionally, the Queen is chosen for their exceptional magical abilities. And Lukas knows that it’s not normal, the way their magic sometimes ripples under their skin, barely contained. It is his greatest fear that their powers will one day burst and rip them from their home. Rip them from each other. Either to serve in the army, to be a castle mage, or, worst of all, chosen to be Queen.  
He could never be in that position, with the realm’s eyes on him, stifled by the traditions of court. That was to say nothing of Emil, the cutthroat politics of the Capital that would surely eat him alive. _ _

__Lukas smiles tightly, lips drawn into a thin line, “It doesn’t have to change.”  
_ _

__Emil sighs, and Lukas cannot discern the emotion behind it. He reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder.  
_ _

__Suddenly, the air between them is in motion, a flash of white tears across his vision.  
_ _

__The arrow has lodged itself in the floor, a thin slip of parchment rolled about its shaft. Lukas’ blood runs cold, and not only at the prospect of being skewered by a second. He shuffles to the window, and there is no sign of anyone outside, just the stars and the ripple of wind through long grass. Yet, he shivers in the presence of the phantom at his back, the white fletched arrow in Emil’s hands. It’s the calling card of the Jack of Spades.  
_ _

__Lukas turns to his brother, the silent question on his lips.  
_ _

__Emil looks over the edge of the parchment, his knuckles white. “It’s a summons.”  
_ _

__His brother hesitates, and Lukas nods for him to continue.  
_ _

__“I’m to start my training to become Queen next week.”  
_ _

__Lukas’ world crumbles beneath him._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a late night impromptu idea. Enjoy?


	2. The Chimney Sweep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a thief, it's worse. It's Matthias.

Emil is awake before he is, his clothes stuffed into a small leather satchel and his fingers splayed across the windowsill. The sun has yet to rise over the horizon, casting him in a deep lavender glow. Lukas watches the taut draw of his lips, the faint furrow of his brow and imagines the Queen’s cloak draped over his brother’s spare frame. He looks like a ghost.

Lukas thought he had more time with him, more time to convince Emil to run away with him. But the distant sound of hooves clapping against loose rocks on the path toward their door fills him with dread. His heart threatens to leap out of his chest as they draw closer.

The man that greets them is the sole driver of the carriage stopped on the path. His hair is an icy blonde and his gaze is warm. His manner is kind, but Lukas feels a cold fear creep up his spine regardless. A Spade with aster eyes. 

The man introduces himself as Tino, but does not offer his card rank. He holds himself with an air of authority, and Lukas wonders if he is the Queen in disguise. 

Tino doesn’t let him accompany Emil. Lukas hates him.

-

Their one-room cottage now feels too large for one. Lukas locks the windows and doors and hides under the furs that his brother couldn’t take with him. He wonders if he should have locked Emil up, fought for the right to keep him by his side for a little bit longer. Or for forever. It’s a silly thought, wishful at best. Lukas’ heart clenches and the lump in his throat is a bitter reminder of all the things he should have said. He is lonely.

He ignores the passage of time. Ignores the growl of his stomach, the wetness of the pillow, the building headache, and the animals that need tending to. They clamber for food, crying out in hunger, and he still doesn’t move.

He is awakened by the sound of something falling down the chimney. There is a scuttle on the roof, clumsy and awkward. It is followed by the sound of tearing fabric, and a deflated oomph! as they fell into the fireplace. Lukas does not so much as twitch. If it’s a thief, he would let him have what he wants, so long as he is not disturbed.  
“Luk? Are you okay?” It’s not a thief, it’s worse. Matthias. 

Lukas grumbles, gripping the furs tighter, turning away as the bed sinks beside him.

“I saw Emil this mornin’. In a fancy carriage. Don’t see many of those around here, eh?” Matthias has a way of cutting to the point. He continues after a tense pause, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Lukas’ voice is thick with emotions when he replies, “What’s the use...”

“Oh, loads! Talking is super effective, y’know. My gran always used to tell me, ‘Use your words, Mat-thi-as. I can’t hear thoughts.’” He stresses the syllables in his name. “So I did, and I learned that ya’ won’t know how ya’ truly feel until you say it out loud. Y’know?”

Matthias pats at him through the fur, “I know you’re worried about him, but Emil is stronger than you think. He’ll be just f –“

“What do you know? He’s not _your _brother!” Lukas snaps, voice low and dangerous. He shoves Matthias aside. How dare he say ‘Emil will be just fine.’__

____

__

The look on Matthias’ face stops his anger from boiling over, dousing it in a flood of shame. His shoulders are stooped, his head is bowed, and his eyes look up in guilt. He looks like a dog being scolded. Matthias is family, and he cares for Emil just as much as Lukas does. Emil matters to him too.  
“I’m sorry,” Lukas stammers, attempting to take back his words. “I didn’t mean to -- you’re not --”

“I know…” Matthias smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. He rests his hands in his lap. He sighs and looks down at his bag, and gently changes the subject, “I brought soup.” 

They open the windows and light a fire, eating by the fireplace in between familiar conversation. Matthias talks about the baby birds he saw this morning while chopping firewood. He talks about a fish hopping out of the stream and the bear that caught it. He gossips about town news such as what the neighbour’s mischievous goat did, the old woman who threw a fit in the market that morning, and brings the whole world into the house. Matthias is right about talking, but not for the reasons he might think.

“I’ve decided I’m going to the Capital.” Matthias says, long after they’ve finished eating. His eyes are set on the setting sun outside the window, “I’m gonna keep him safe.”

“How?”

“I’ll become King.”

Lukas scoffs, “You and what army?” 

“The tournament. ‘ _The victor shall be rightwise King_ ,’” Matthias’ whispers those words like sacred vow, his fist clenched at his chest. “This opportunity only happens once in a lifetime.”

He leaves with a tight embrace and a lighthearted reminder to feed the animals. Lukas mulls over the idea his friend unintentionally inspired long after he has left. Whoever wins the tournament shall be rightwise King, indeed. It is the only title where a commoner can challenge nobility for. Aces are promoted through knighthood, the Queens and the Jack are chosen by the current Jack. It is the way of the Four Kingdoms as declared by the Jokers long ago, but rules can change. 

The current Queen is still alive, she will be present at the King’s tournament. _The victor shall be rightwise…_

Lukas packs a bag and sets out for the Capital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We thought about having Denmark say "I'm at Soup" instead of "I brought soup."


	3. Lukas Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four days, three nights. He would take the long path to the Capital, and he would be there by dawn if he travels through the night.

People often assume, on the rare occasions the brothers went into town, that Lukas is the ice mage and Emil is the fire mage. Lukas is closed off and quiet, and one could never tell what he’s thinking behind those cold eyes. Emil, while reserved, is easy to provoke and passionate in his anger. In reality, the opposite is true. In reality, Lukas is a smouldering fire, hungry and ready to burst forth and engulf the valleys. Emil is the rain that quenches the embers before they can eat the world in flames. He kept Lukas in check. Emil helped control the part of the magic in him Lukas most hated, his wild-magic. Without his brother by his side, the fire returns. 

It starts in his legs, an overwhelming heat building upward. He takes off his shoes, but it makes it worse. He tries rolling up his trousers, but the flame only grows with every touch of breeze. Soon, it reaches his stomach and he has to rest and fight the urge to vomit. The fire is hungry, and it burns him from the inside, consuming him for fuel and begging for more. 

The Grønn river carves a deep valley in the realm of Spades, carrying water as cold as the glaciers from which it is sourced. Lukas clings to its banks, allowing him to lean into the spray kicked up by the rushing current. It provides temporary relief, all but flushed away by the heat bubbling under his skin. He wonders detachedly if he would reach the Capital faster if he jumped into its depths. Yet, an enduring sense of self preservation keeps his path on the trail, trudging along until he can find a spot where the rapids still.

The pool he finds is surrounded by wispy shrubs, whose berries have long since been plucked by birds. Lukas is burning up, and he fears he would set them alight if he touches them. He dips his hands in the water first, forcing steam to the surface. His face soon follows, and it’s the first time in hours that his head feels clear.

Four days, three nights. He would take the long path to the Capital, and he would be there by dawn if he travels through the night. His meager portions of bread and jam would last him until he arrives. 

He is violently shaken out of his thoughts by a large pair of hands on his shoulders. He hadn’t heard anyone behind, or approaching him. A sense of dread creeps over him. It takes every ounce of control he has to pull his head out of the water before he gasps, hands clenched as the heat returns to them. It stings.

“Ah, You’re alive!” The man’s voice is unnaturally chipper. 

“If I wasn’t?” Lukas groans, rolling onto his back at the pond’s edge, struggling to focus on the figure that looms over him. He’s tall, but his scarf almost touches the ground when he leans over, it’s laced with green thread, rare in Spades.

“Then I guess I would have to bury you.” 

Lukas hums, unsure what to make of the encounter in his addled state. It is enough to block the light of the sun above their heads,and he could finally make out (with him) the man’s features. His eyes are boring into him - _lavender_ \- hand extended for him to take, pale hair falling across his forehead. He looks eerily similar to Emil. It all seems like a cruel joke. 

Brushing off the offer of help, Lukas pulls himself from the dirt. 

“Who are you?”

The man smiles. 

-

He should have never asked. Ivan follows him along the path, steps eerily silent amongst the leaf litter strewn about the banks. He exudes an oppressive pressure despite his lilting voice, and sparse, friendly conversation.

“Are there sunflowers in Spades? They’re very common where I’m from.”

“Where are you from?” 

“Far away. Very far.”

Despite the deflection, Lukas is grateful for the lapse in conversation.

The moon hangs low in the sky, as shadows creep towards them from all sides. Nights are cold on the riverbank, and the fever drops to something uncomfortable, but manageable. His thoughts are another story. The darkness poisons them with memories he’d sooner forget, ones that end with him and Emil standing barefoot in cinders. 

Then just him, alone.

Ivan places a hand on his shoulder as if to dissuade _that_ notion, and Lukas tenses. He isn’t sure how comfortable to feel with this odd man leaning over to him as conspiratorially as he was. 

“What takes you to the Capital, friend?”

He swallows, and he can’t escape Ivan’s gaze. “My brother is there.”

It’s not the whole truth, but it’s not a lie. It is all he can manage, too afraid to speak it aloud.

“I’m sure he’s enjoying it very much!” Ivan says, no indication that he had picked up on the dour undertones in Lukas’ tone. “Especially with so much going on this month. I never thought I would get to see a King’s Tournament myself.”

Lukas wrings his hands, they itch with a lick of flame, left unchecked at the mention of the tournament. He desperately wants to change the subject, or to drop it entirely. He musters a weak smile, “You must be lucky.”

Ivan’s face is hard to read, lips tilted up into a cat-like grin, lavender eyes betraying nothing. It is as if every time Lukas tries to glean any information from him, the very air around them conspires to hide his intentions. It wipes away expressions on his companion’s face as easily as it flutters through the leaves of the forest around them. He’s uneasy; Lukas thinks a deathly omen is looming over him.

-

They begrudgingly set up a small camp less than an hour later a small fire on the edge of a creek, several paces from the river. The clearing is lush with the last shrubs of summer, and dark trees with straight, dry thorns. Lukas rushes to fill a skin of water only for it to evaporate as he holds it to his lips, barely managing a sip from the leather. 

“Need my help?” 

This is getting embarrassing. If he can’t control his magic, then what good would it be for him to show up in the Capital at all? Perhaps he would need to suppress his elemental affinity even further. It would be even more exhausting. He’s tried that already. It’s not so simple. He’s at the end of his rope.

“Yes, thank you.”

Ivan fills the skin carefully, dipping it into the stream and letting it swell as the water flows into it. Lukas dips his hands into the water before he takes it back. He drinks deeply from it, desperate for the distraction from the heat engulfing him.

“It is not easy, is it, without your ice?”

“What?” Lukas stops, voice hoarse. He barely manages to choke out the question before Ivan turns back to the fire they had built. He sits up abruptly, their conversations from before rattles in his head. He shouldn’t know about that.

“Fire can be hard to control without ice. But for you, not impossible.” Ivan muses. He is considering something.

“How would you know?”

“Your heart is strong enough, it’s just scared.” 

Ivan looks like they were discussing the weather, calm as before, but his smile was thinner. Lukas grips the handle of the old iron dagger at his hip, unsheathing it. The blade flickers with the reflection of the orange flames that lit Ivan’s face, yet the man doesn't flinch.

“What do you know?” He asks, eyes narrowed.

“Enough to help you. Enough to save Emil.” 

Lukas frowns, knuckles white on the hilt of his dagger. _Emil? How does he know about Emil?_

“Who are you, really?” 

“A magician. Is that not what you call them in Spades?” Ivan tilts his head, simultaneously innocent and taunting, “In any case, you are struggling. Do you expect to win anything like that?”

They are at an impasse. Lukas’ body is burning, the grips on the dagger were starting to smoulder in the heat of his palms. He searches for any sign of deception, though he knows it is hopeless. Ivan leans back, unbothered by the heavy silence. Lukas yields, slipping his dagger back into his belt. 

“And what can you do?” 

“I’m sure you know, magic relies on conduits. The fact that you have such a powerful conduit in your body that the magic can take over it is quite impressive, maybe too impressive. But you rely on ice to dampen its power, so you have forgotten how to control it yourself. Am I correct?”

Lukas says nothing.

“I am.” Ivan places his hands together. The air around him seems to twist again, “But that does not mean you need to let it run wild like this, yes? I propose a simple exercise, I promise it is very easy.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Lukas grips his dagger but he lets his eyes fall shut.

“Now, relax and let the magic speak to you, it has much to say.”

There is a moment where nothing happens.

_How would he know that? Why was he confronting this on the doorstep of the Capital? Was Emil frozen without him, shivering, afraid, overwhelmed? Was he leaving him behind?_

The campfire pops, the sound of blistering wood accelerates the pounding in his chest and the string of worries that floods his senses. His face is hot. Ivan’s even breaths beside him only make him aware how hard it is for him to breathe. His hand chars the grip of his dagger and it finally catches alight. 

Lukas stands up. He growls, “This isn’t working! I can’t do this, there must be some other way.”

Ivan follows him, their faces are even. He places a hand on Lukas’ shoulder, squeezing lightly. 

“Perhaps you’re right.” Ivan murmurs, there’s a glint in his eye Lukas cannot read, “What you need is a little push in the right direction.”

Lukas scrambles for footing as the hand on his shoulder pushes too far. He’s falling, and he’s falling into the fire. The light and heat envelop him, searing his clothes. He is thrown back to all those years ago: a scream, the scent of burnt flesh, the crumbling pillars on either side of him, Emil’s crying. 

The campfire is spreading, a circle of flames that threatens to lick up the trunks of the trees around him, and above him stood Emil, completely calm. He is changing before Lukas’ eyes, expression cold and unwavering. What has the Capital done to him? What has Lukas done to let him slip away?

“Emil!” 

The fever, once sticking to his joints flushes away, leaving nothing but ice-cold fear. His vision lurches, then fades, white to red to black.

-

The river’s babble is close to him, trickling over bare rocks in a gentle stream and over his body. His clothes are soaked through, clinging closely to his skin, they are cold. A bird chirps somewhere in the vicinity, a delicate song he hasn’t heard before. He is comfortable, for a moment. Lukas opens his eyes to the sight of a flat grey sky, illuminated by the first light of morning. 

He rolls over in his bed of rocks, muscles protesting, too stiff to move without persuasion. He drags himself back onto the bank. 

A single pair of footsteps leads back to the camp and, to his horror, ashes coated the clearing. The dust curls around itself, twisting and braiding into intricate patterns. All signs point to them having been magically induced. Slowly, the night comes back to him. Ivan, the fire, the vision of Emil. His stomach turns.

Ivan is nowhere to be seen, not a trail, nor a parchment left behind. He wonders if he’d ever been there in the first place.

Lukas looks toward the capital, barely visible along the river’s horizon. He crosses his arms, freezing cold. He keeps walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sask: I tried to name the river "Saskatchewan" but I got vetoed. I got vetoed a lot. This whole chapter is a veto.  
> Quart: Someone had to write it.


	4. Interlude: Let Me Tell You Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Emil thinks about writing a letter without actually writing one and uses chamomile scented soap.

Emil scrubs at his skin with a stone of pumice, tending it until it is pink and soft. He stares at the steam rising from the water, heated by some element buried beneath the ornate bathhouse tiles. He sets the pumice to the edge of the bath, reaches for a vial of soap. It’s scented like chamomile, delicate and sweet. He pours a small amount into his hand, and lathers it into his hair, saving the rest for later. Emil has a sneaking suspicion the servants refill the vial each morning. He wishes they wouldn’t.

“Milord? The time approaches for your audience of the tournament. We must begin the preparations. There is no time to waste—”

He dips his head under the surface.

_That’s one way to get you to shut up._ He sighs into the water, willing it to crystallize around the bubbles on contact and make a pocket around his head and give him a few more precious moments of silence. ‘Milord’. It’s ridiculous. Only four days ago, he’d been splitting Matthias’ firewood, surrounded by crowing hens.

He composes the letter in his head, writing and re-writing it. A greeting for the parchment sitting on the desk in the next room drifts in and out of his mind. It’s a letter he won’t get to write for a few days still. Especially if he keeps getting pulled limb from limb as he has been since Tino first ushered him through the doors of the palace. He wonders if the messenger would crack the seal and replace it before it is delivered. If so, perhaps he should abstain from the scathing remarks he has for the overbearing service.

By the end of his first night, he’d been introduced to tailors, and chefs, and scholars. All who scrutinized him and doted on him with an insistence that rivaled Lukas. He had slammed the bath doors in the face of the Seven assigned to ‘clean him’, face hot with indignation. He didn’t let anyone into the room given to him until Tino called for him.

Baths were nice. He could get away from the lack of privacy, the relentless service. He will apologize to Lukas in his letter, he thinks. For what, he’s not sure yet. For something. He has a lot to apologize to his brother for: snapping at him, ignoring his calls to come in for dinner, for running away to Matthias’ house that one weekend. Not saying goodbye. Omitting the fact that he already knew that he would leave.

A sharp knock at the door interrupts the thought. Emil jerks his head out of the water when he hears the door groan behind him. He’s greeted by the face of the Ten that shadows Tino around the halls. He’s a tall man, stoic and has electric blue eyes that could pierce armour. He hums in a low tone, as if asking a silent question.

“What? Were you expecting something?” Emil grumbles, he can hear the pout in his voice, but it’s too late to take it back. He settles for suppressing the blush rising to his face.

“No.” 

“Isn’t the tournament hours from now? Doesn’t this...I don’t know. Doesn’t this seem like too much, Berwald?”

“Not my place t’say.” He says simply. His expression is stone, dead neutral, “Tino called.”

Emil supposes he can’t argue with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: "Shower Thoughts: A Side Story"


	5. Calling a Bluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lukas can practically hear the other’s thoughts. _The victor shall be rightwise King._ “..Begin.”

He dodges a pair of children as they hurtle down the cobbled path to the central district. The boy turns into the nearby alley dragging the girl behind him. Their laughter fades amongst the din of people pushing toward the square. In the market, lined with shops and stalls and spade-smith workshops, is a statue of the last King of Spades. Merchants robed in green from Clovers call out for customers, fighting over the next sale. The locals keep to the shops on the corners, speaking in hushed tones as they try to haggle down the prices of fruit, soon to fall out of season. The Capital seems alive despite its stark, black stone towers, cutting jagged thorns into the grey sky overhead.

Lukas feels very out of place, as he carries on along with the crowd that pools in front of the palace gates. Lukas feels a heavy weight settle in his stomach. He should’ve come earlier or moped less or travelled faster. There are many things he should have done, from the day they lost their parents to the day Emil was taken from him, but he is here now and he won’t make the same mistakes anymore.

The crowd around him gasps as the palace gates open and out steps the tallest man Lukas has ever seen, followed by royal guards. He is fitted in the uniform of a Ten and cuts a striking figure overlooking the masses. Oddly, he carries a rolled parchment and no saber. Even odder, he wears a pair of glasses.The man makes a cursory glance over the crowd before unrolling the parchment and speaking.

“Spades ‘nd fellow Cards! Though we mourn the passing of King Alfred, today we will rejoice ‘s we bear witness to the crowning of a new King of Spades. As the Jokers decreed when they created this realm, ‘ _The victor shall be rightwise King._ ’ And so ‘s the tradition in our Kingdom that the victor is chosen by a tournament duel.”

He rolls the parchment and continues, “All who wish t’ meet this challenge, come forth.”

The crowd around Lukas disperses as those just here to spectate step back. Meanwhile, he and a dozen or so others step forward. At some point someone kneels, starting a chain reaction among the challengers. Lukas follows.

“Guards!” The man calls.

The guards rush down the steps and barricade them from the spectators.

“Bare your marks. Only a Spade may challenge for the crown.”

Lukas loosens the lacing at the neck of his tunic, showing the blue spade marked on his left shoulder. The others do the same.

The bespectacled man gives them a nod. “Follow me,” he commands, and the crowd gives them cheers and applause as they are led through the palace gates. Lukas puts a hand to the dagger sheathed at his side in comfort.

On the other side of the palace gates is a large garden courtyard. Rectangular, about 200 feet and 150 feet across, and surrounded on all sides by palace walls and towers. It is arranged with bushes and flower and stone paths placed in concentric patterns, and is the ugliest thing Lukas has ever seen. The bushes are trimmed into the shape of spades of varying sizes, the flowers and rocks are all some shade of blue, and there is a pond in the centre of it all, spewing a large stream of water 10 feet into the sky. Not a blade of grass out of place or a weed in sight. What a manicured monstrosity, he thought. It must be the Queen’s.

The man leads them to the centre, towards the water. Lukas wonders where exactly they will be dueling. Surely not _here_? Townsfolk old enough to have witnessed a King’s tournament before speak of a grand and glorious battle where half the kingdom comes to bear witness. This hideous garden is not what Lukas had imagined as a child. Not that Spades has a gladiatorial culture that warrants having a monumental arena, nor does he particularly care for the crowd outside to witness his actions, but surely this is not a place for spilling blood.

Lukas feels a rough tug on his forearm pull him back from the group. Hands on his shoulders turn him around to face Matthias’ fearful eyes. Matthias doesn’t get scared easily. He will fight a bear head on for a honeycomb if the opportunity and motivation presents itself. Lukas has not seen those eyes fill with fear in a very, very long time.

“Luk. What are ya doin’ here.” Matthias demands more than asks.

Lukas has not thought about this moment and what to say to him. Logically, he should have prepared for this.

“You need ta go home right now. Quick, get out while you still can.” He tugs and pushes Lukas back to the gates.

Lukas shrugs off those hands.

Matthias continues pleading with him. “Please, Luk. You shouldn’t be here. I know you’re worried but I can protect--”

Lukas cuts him off, “I am here to protect _my_ little brother,” and instantly regrets it. He really should have prepared for this eventuality ahead of time.

He is about to ask for forgiveness when an arm swings down between them. It’s a guard, who gives them both a hard look before nodding his head towards the courtyard centre.

In the pond, the water abruptly stops, dropping down and splashing over the edges some. Behind the fall of water is revealed two figures. They are dressed identically in deep blue velvets and white wimple, topped with a horned headdress draped in starched fabric. A small piece of sheer cloth veils their eyes and nose.

They lift their arms out before them in tandem, palms up, and before Lukas could even blink the ground begins to shake violently. And sink. Lukas tries to balance himself but ends up falling to his knees and then his stomach. He reaches for Matthias as he falls as well, pulling him close just as the ground beneath them crumbles.

He tries to conjure up a levitation spell, but when he tries to draw on the magic in the air he finds none. _Whoever’s causing all this is using up all the magic in the city_.

Lukas wraps himself around Matthias and closes his eyes, awaiting the impact. The last thing he remembers is the glimpse of something white amidst the falling earth.

\--

Lukas comes to as soon as he realizes he is on the ground. Solid ground. He is on the ground, and he is not in pain. Other realizations follow suit as he finds his bearings, like the ringing in his ear. And the _noise_.

He opens his eyes to the sight of a wall of people. A wall of people on all sides. And the palace walls-- _oh_.

He realizes then what has happened. The earth had fallen away to reveal, beneath the courtyard, an arena. The existing palace sits atop this structure and surrounds the perimeter, it’s walls and black stone towers looming high, high above but not obstructing the sun directly above him.

All of a sudden, the noise from the thousands of people is silenced. Lukas quickly gets up and looks around. He finds the other challengers are standing already. Or rather, they look like they didn’t take a tumble like he did. They had been by the pond.

They all stand facing the same direction, so Lukas follows and he finds the two figures in blue from before standing on a balcony. One of them now wears a crown atop the headdress, a hand held up in command of silence.

The tall man from the gates stands beside them as well.

“Draw your weapons.” His voice carries far even though he does not yell.

They do, and the tension in the air grows tangibly thick. Lukas unsheathes his dagger.

“When the horn sounds,” a pause. Lukas can practically hear the other’s thoughts. _The victor shall be rightwise King._ “..Begin.”

And all hell breaks loose.

\--

The crowd is restless, shouting over the clash of blades in the pit below. Men fall over one another in the corners of his vision.

Matthias is nowhere to be seen.

Lukas fends off a man with his dagger, holding it tight against his forearm. It’s no good, he’s barely softening blows and he’s being pushed back. Sparks fly from the edge of his blade as the man’s sword strikes it. The edge of the pit digs into Lukas’ heel. He grits his teeth and waits.

_There_. He feints left.

The man’s sword traces a clean arc in the air, but his posture is open. The sword’s weight drags him over the shallow ledge. It’s not a long way to fall, but it’s enough to hurt, based on the obscene crack and groan that rises from the darkness below.

Lukas does not have time to dwell on it before the next man is hurtling toward him with a club, hair drenched in sweat and cursing at the top of his lungs. His eyes are wild, peeking through a dark, all consuming beard spattered in blood. If these are the type of men fighting to be king, his heart clenches for his brother. As if it already doesn’t.

Lukas’ brow creases. His hair sticks to his skin, slick with sweat, heat flickers in his palms. He steps forward to catch the swing. He meets the blow awkwardly over his head. It hurts. His vision is spotted black and flames lick up his spine to settle in the bruise.

But the man’s next attack never connects with him, but Lukas is sharply aware of the sudden quiet above him, a moan of pain. Something heavy is on top of him. He is on the ground.

The arena twists, dusky and indistinct, and he shoves the man off of him and over the edge. The royal balcony spins in the corner of his vision, illuminated by elemental blue torches.

He grasps for any source of magic to clear away the clouds in his vision, but he is grasping at nothing, just residual pulses of energy from the enchantment that had sucked them into the arena. It wouldn’t be enough to even levitate a blade of grass. His own magic whispers to him, but fire is useless for healing, too wild.

He can make out the chants of the crowd somewhere far away, the thundering roar of voices rise and fall over the ringing in his ears. Then suddenly, there’s another shadow above him, and a leather gloved hand in his face.

“Up...Luk....c’mon, get up!”

The world comes back in a flurry of sound and the sharp smell of iron and heat spikes his senses. He meets familiar eyes: a clear, glacial blue and too kind, trained on him with a rare intensity. Lukas feels as though he is not forgiven. Matthias holds his axe in his other hand as if it weighs nothing. That damned thing was always too heavy for him or Emil to swing.

Matthias suddenly yanks his hand away to brace that axe in a haphazard guard against a young challenger with weak footing. In his half-consciousness Lukas registers a wet slap and a cry of surrender next to him. The acrid scent of enchanted vulnerary mixed with blood is potent and overwhelming. Lukas catches a glance of Matthias in his peripheral vision. He is stupidly, stupidly grinning about it. It’s so true to his habits, but there’s an edge of melancholy, anger - he can’t tell the difference - in the expression. It’s almost comforting, the annoyance welling up within him, replacing the hum of anxious adrenaline and the too-present thrum of his own magic in his veins.

So he staggers to his feet and stands back-to-back with Matthias. The arena still undulates in his peripheral vision, and his senses are dimmed, but he can fight. So he does. And when he can’t, Matthias makes up the difference with a well placed slash of his axe.

Amidst it all, guilt sits heavy in his stomach, builds and contorts his own magic.

The crowd’s cheers rise to a fever pitch. He’s not sure how long they have been fighting, time passes like the hands of a broken clock, unpredictably. One moment, they’re being rushed by challengers, and the next, all he hears is Matthias’ slow gasping for breath at his back.

The sound of metal clashing conspicuously ceases. They’re the last ones left.

They turn to face each other, and Matthias’ smile falls, his jovial mask slips and shatters. Lukas knows he is hesitating.

“Idiot.” Lukas snarls, balling his fist around the handle of his dagger, the leather crackles under his searing grip. His punches Matthias in the jaw, eliciting a sickening crack and a surprised yelp. They grapple to the ground.

Then it’s quiet.

He’s straddling Matthias, the edge of his dagger pressed against a high cheekbone, his free hand pressed to his throat. Beads of blood pool together where the blade nicks his skin. And they’re just staring at each other.

Lukas’ head is still fuzzy, and his face is hot with the same fever that chased him to the Capital. Matthias’ lips curl into something unreadable. It’s an expression he hasn’t seen since they were children, long before deep smile lines had etched themselves into his face. It is something dark and ruthless and patient. Lukas is not afraid of Matthias, but he thinks anyone else would be in his position. Murmurs above them break the quiet.

“You don’t think I can do it.” Matthias speaks first of the two of them. Of course he does. But it’s small, a whisper for his ears only. “Ya’ still don’t think I can protect him. You’re scared, Luk.”

Lukas breathes out slowly, and a cloud of steam forms between them. He wants to deny it, but he’s right. The fears suppressed by adrenaline flood back to the surface. He’s scared, he’s so scared. He’s afraid of what he’ll see on Emil’s face when he sees him again. He’s afraid of his magic. He’s afraid of losing his best friend and his brother. He’s afraid of a lot of things.

“’m not afraid of you.”

“Aw c’mon, y’know that’s not what I meant!” Matthias grinds out. He struggles with the whole of his body weight, and Lukas’ grip on his dagger falters. “You’re so damned stubborn. I’m his family too!”

The fight ends quickly.

In the next moment, he’s biting the ground, teeth pressed painfully against the dusty stone of the arena. His nose feels numb and all he smells is blood. One of his hands is covered by Matthias’, their fingers laced together. It’s a warm contrast to the haft of the axe pressed against the nape of his neck. Pressure swells in his throat.

He’s lost.

“We could’ve just talked this out, Luk! I don’t wanna fight ya.”

He overestimated himself. Yet another mistake as he is steps from his goal, and Matthias is punishing him for it. His pulse pounds in his ears. Whatever it was that tore Emil away from him overnight, and whatever it was that compelled Matthias to leave him behind too, it tears through him now. The wild-magic that courses through his veins flares. But now, it doesn’t consume him. He just needs to direct it. He knows what he has to do, or everything he’s given up will go to waste.

He sees white and feels burning leather. Somewhere above him, Matthias hisses, chokes on his name. And he’s able to pull back the flames, smothering it in his palm. He uses what remains of his strength to shove the axe away from him.

Matthias looks between him and the hole burned into his glove. He’s not in pain. Relief washes over Lukas but it is bitter.

“Stop.” Lukas says, voice wavering from its usual soft lilt. He clenches his fists, releases them. He reaches up to touch Matthias’ cheek, wiping away the streak of blood smeared across his face. “‘The victor shall be rightwise king’. You’ve won, but I have to do this.”

Matthias looks at him dumbly, tension draining from his body as Lukas steps away. He’s laughing breathlessly but it’s choked, filling the confused silence. “Ya can’t just say things like that.”

The space between them opens.

Lukas glances up to the balcony overlooking the pit, wills his hands alight when he is sure Matthias will not intercede. Two figures watch him from above. Queen, Queen Regent. One more figure emerges from the shadows of the balcony. He is dressed from head to toe in white, wearing an amiable smile that hardly suits the tension crackling in the air. Jack. _Tino._

He can see Emil, swallowed by the garments and surrounded by wolves, his nightmares made real.

He steels himself.

“I wish to challenge the Queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When we said 'soon' in the April fool's chapter, we meant soon! 
> 
> (I don't normally write these by myself but thank you for sticking with the story, hope you enjoy this part! -Quart)


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